


Betrayal and Forgiveness

by nigellecter



Series: Fire & Brimstone Arc [1]
Category: Charlie Countryman (2013), Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Blood and Violence, Cannibalism, Canon-Typical Violence, Crack, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gone Fucking Nuts, Hannibal has Feelings, Implied Sexual Content, Incest, M/M, Twincest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-30
Updated: 2016-05-01
Packaged: 2018-06-05 09:04:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,717
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6698533
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nigellecter/pseuds/nigellecter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A three-chapter short fic. Set in Fire & Brimstone verse, pre-canon with Hannibal canon stuff mixed in. Hannibal fears what happened twenty-one years ago, Nigel leaving the orphanage and leaving him to deal with the bullying and abuse alone would repeat, thinking Nigel is leaving for Bucharest permanently with his frequent leave of absences. Hannibal does the unthinkable by recklessly and impulsively killing few, more like the manner of his younger twin. Even then, he realizes even Nigel would not kill in the way Hannibal kills, and as he witnesses the act, he is forced to tell the surprise he had hidden in the sleeve the whole time - finishing his bachelor’s degree which he hadn’t been able to when they were in Paris (set in Prince and the Pauper verse).</p><p>Sort of a headcanon, drabble turned a mini-fic.<br/>Placed within Fire & Brimstone arc.<br/>Mistakes are my own. Unbeta'ed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [YouDroppedYourForgiveness](https://archiveofourown.org/users/YouDroppedYourForgiveness/gifts).



Watching the striking evidence incinerate behind the smokeless fire pit, meant to double-function as the source of insulating the mansion without using excessive fuel and to burn of any soiled clothes and chopped off appendages after Nigel and he had savored the human flesh, Hannibal finishes his transfer of meticulous filing of clean-cut meat into the freezer. The stocked meat neatly packed into each labeled vacuum-sealed zip-lock bag, along with the harvested organs from the other night is copious enough to hold another lavishing dinner party. 

 

Myriads of thoughts flood as he processes what to do before the grandiose feast. He would have to get his tuxedo tailored to fit his more muscled and toned body, as well as with Nigel’s. Wanting to get his younger twin more suitable colors and patterns, without conforming the other to his own tastes. Although their styles strikingly clashed, it would be worth it to elevate his twin another notch, in front of his high socialite acquaintances. With the special favor he would adamantly ask his tailor to make his and his brother’s tuxedos by no later than Saturday morning for a fitting session. Then he will host the splendid party on Sunday night, along with his trusty company of sous-chefs with throngs of people fawning over Nigel while he does an entire performance in the kitchen; a prominent one would be Mrs. Komeda, who just happened to be writing a fiction about a series of high-end crimes.  

 

They already had taken notice that his ‘reticent and quite shy’ brother who was in the process of becoming a private investigator had been positively charming on his own, sort of roguish and less refined. All Nigel had to do was to zip his mouth, occasionally offer a couple of remarks (going along with Hannibal’s lie, although the latter part remained to be a secretive truth) and absorb compliments like a narcissistic individual he was. 

 

_ Heart for the absence of assuring bedside manner and good vibration, liver for being a noxious individual, a venom to his veins.  _ Going along with the organ’s main function of detoxifying chemicals and metabolizing drugs, he was merely a  _ disease  _ that would put strain on his own. 

 

More recipes from his Rolodex float to the surface within the pensiveness of his mind. Heart tartare would be a must-have, along with charcuterie of different cheeses and meats, including the cured homemade sausage that hangs in the basement with a thick coat of sea salt, drawing out the moisture. He would place artfully plated ceviche within thin, crisp cheese cups baked fresh from the oven. To wrap the bountiful feast altogether, he would serve panna cotta; save the gelatin from cooked down human bones to serve to Nigel, using other parts he had procured from his ethical butcher. He couldn’t be stingy on kobe beef either with the number of people he would send invitations to; after all had flooded in with the ebb and flow, there would be only one trial left; to confirm his theory about making his brother taste ‘better,’ with a chilled plate of raw oysters on the half shell with mignonette sauce with a bit heavy on the black pepper, not for Hannibal’s own liking. As his conspicuous personality suggested, Nigel preferred rather savory and piquant flavor notes, opting for highly-seasoned and well-flavored viant. At least he got Nigel to eat the oysters again with that proposition, that was more than half the success.  

 

His mind immediately hurtles back to a few nights ago, his mind crystal clear, though the pitch-black darkness and the slapping wind had been akin to a giant swirl of Ferris wheels and constellations of stars passing through them like glowing goals in a bonfire. Insisting to act alone as Nigel had been disposed to his own endeavors, it was easy for Hannibal to ambush him from behind without ever making a single noise and once the man became unconscious and limp against his broader and taller frame, everything fit into a flawless streak of plans. Hoping to prolong the torture by slowly amputating the limbs one by one, his basement had been the peerless place do exert the pain. The hooked IV occasionally making the noise in the dead silence of the darkened room, the glowing crackling of fire turns confetti inside the fire pit as the generated warmth and effervescent glow sweeps the threshold. With this spectacularly horribly rude individual who wanted to become the Chesapeake Ripper by taking his own identity, he would indeed cook up a thigh baked in clay with marrow with tiny Lady Apples on the side to celebrate the occasion. Letting the falsified ripper become one with the true self. The man will soon taste his own damn delicious self once he wakes up from the anesthesia. 

 

Still in his solemn ruminating mood, he fails to recognize Nigel standing right behind him, the heavy scent of cigarette clinging onto his leather-clad form. With a flask in his hand, he takes a slurping sip, before his emotionless gaze falls towards the man, who he knows only as the one who attempted (and partially succeeded) to copy his brother’s identity. 

 

“We should dispose of him soon. Have you read that fucking TattleCrime? It’s all over that goddamn site. I assume his liver would be beyond trashed, We could have his heart and give him what he had coming all along.” 

 

Giving his brother a curt nod over the shoulder, Hannibal’s lips let a faint curl radiate through his lower face. “Of course I have. No doubt I will give him what he deserves.” 

 

Taking another small sip from the flask, Nigel screws the bottle and tugs it into his leather jacket and presses his body against Hannibal’s back. His arm winding around the older twin’s chest in a languid, sweeping motion as the other puts more log into the pit. Nigel’s hand is still cold, from the biting wind outside. The sound of whirling wind effectively numbed by more intensifying crackling embers. Each spark reflected upon Nigel’s hazel pools as he applies more pressure, tucking the shirt off from the waistband. 

 

“What do you intend to do with his thigh?” 

 

Letting his characteristic drawl become the basis of the intensifying yearning, the flickering crimson light dissipates and transfers onto his body, their shared lust becoming a red thick haze around them. Nigel hears his steady lub and dub, along with the nostalgic scent from the fire and dripping IV fluids becoming a sonorous bass to more instruments to play at hand. 

 

Hannibal’s hand cups his brother’s, no intention of halting the fluid motion, but to aid in getting himself in more comfortable attire for the night. He doesn’t intend to involve himself in cooking this night. They could resort to a light supper, a leftover from the night before. 

 

“According to food lore, a long time ago, there was a beggar who stole a chicken and because he wanted to cook the chicken without anyone knowing, he wrapped it with lotus leaves and slathered it with mud. However, once he cracked opened the clay, a nobleman noticed the scent of chicken and they shared the meal.” Hannibal’s characteristically low, accented voice, not even a volume raised, breaks the solemn silence as he imagines Nigel flaying the thigh open; removing the skin and trimming it down to match Hannibal’s sanitariness. He doesn’t have to look down to perceive that he too, mirrors the same state, minus the flaying of the flesh.

 

Letting an imperceptible sigh lift his chest, with his half-open shirt heedlessly pushed open, Hannibal feels Nigel’s hand cup the underside of his slowly growing erection. Nigel’s breath subtly quickens, his exhale hot against the crook of Hannibal’s neck. Registering the change in his vitals, his subconscious continues to recall the bespoken food lore. “Eventually, this dish because a staple in the imperial courts and today it is considered a sort of fancy delicacy, which you will taste in the near future.” 

 

~~

 

After having a medical professional over at their house for a routine check-up, the examiner had been insistent enough to be nonchalant and indignant throughout the procedure as he preoccupied himself in drawing Hannibal’s blood in surly resentment. As he transfers the withdrawn blood into a vial for later testing for insurance purposes, the doctor questions Hannibal, “Are you aware of any other infections in your body at the moment? I will imminently find out anyway and lying just increases your insurance payments.” 

 

With his blood already drawn and vitals examined, Nigel sits on the opposite counter, index and middle fingers pressing onto the cotton pad to stop the bleeding. His head slightly lifts, in both an amusement and peaked curiosity. Already knowing Hannibal doesn’t tolerate rudeness nor a scathing remark of what to become a beginning of a dispute, his awareness continues to be intrigued towards the conversation from the opposite side, along with the faint lingering scent of blood. 

 

The looming silence is reminiscent of the swooshing of rolling waves and caws of gulls in the distance, the imminent storm approaching as shadows of clouds rolls and sweeps over the planes. They formulate giant falcons spreading their wings, as thunderous lightning claps to etch through the vast sky. 

 

Hannibal’s maroon gaze, imperceptibly growing more sinister as his chin tips slightly upward, regards the other doctor with contumelious look. “Can I please have your business card?” The gleam in his pupils intensifying, Nigel merely watches with his equally impassive facade, the only giving hint an unnoticeable tilt of the corner of his lips, forming a ghost of a smirk. 

 

“Such a fucking painless procedure, if I may comment myself. We will definitely appreciate it if you make another trip down to our house in the near future.” Taking the cotton pad off of the crook of his elbow, Nigel comments as he rips the band-aid off with the sharp canine, slapping it where the beveled syringe had perforated the thick vein. 

 

Hannibal’s penetrating gaze turns laser as he perceives the name with renewed ferocity, lips thinned into a straight line as he unrolls his sleeve, fastening the cuff as he dons the waistcoat. They had a compact day full of reservations; being a Saturday, they had to drop by the tailor to check the fit of their tuxedos and run some errands around the town. Nigel had asked for a new laptop and since they both weren’t so-called early adopters or tech savvy people, all the necessary details to match Nigel’s requirements had been left to one of Hannibal’s colleagues. They were to have lunch together and pick up the information. Then it was off to attending some art opening reception Hannibal had literally drooled over; The early medieval manuscripts, those untouchable treasures only displayed behind the cabinets and glass vessels. 

 

“ In the vibrant culture of the monastic community, new and innovative devotional texts and images were created, while secular knowledge, including music, history, science, grammar and classical literature, was also actively enjoyed and preserved. With brief period of tutorage, I believe you will appreciate more than how you perceive those precious commodities to be.” 

 

Pivoting his hips to turn around, Hannibal tries his absolute best to hide the brimming anger, presented in a diaphanous maroon about to turn more sanguine. Knowing his brother’s usually undisturbed quietude stir akin to bottom of the ocean, Nigel’s lips, in return, thin to a straight line. Also unforgiving. 

 

“I’d much rather prefer that medieval torture museum you took me when we were vacationing in Amsterdam but might as well make a fucking exception this time to entertain you.” Glancing at his watch, Nigel motions he has to go and attend a meeting, if he’s going to make a six-hour round trip from and to New York, then his schedule had been as tight as the last weekend had been. 

 

“I’d make the first stroke to count, Han. Don’t get too fucking worked up.” His fingers close around Hannibal’s shoulder, giving the older twin a firm grasp and a few pat on his cheek. 

 

“I’ll be back before dinner. If not, I’ll text you.” 

 

Hannibal’s fingers curl up in tight fists and when he plucks himself out of the blurring tornado of swirling fury, so uncharacteristic of his usual composed stature, Nigel’s Ducati swerves away from the house, the sound of the roaring engine quickly drown under the serenity of the morning. 

  
~~


	2. Chapter 2

Nigel hadn’t been back in the evening, nor his cell phone was turned on when Hannibal called around 8pm, the time when they usually have dinner. Hannibal hadn’t gotten any news from his younger twin either and to be a catalyst to his sullen manner, Nigel’s curt voicemail rings like a cacophony for the three times in a row. Nigel comes back the next morning, with heavy bags drooped under his eyes, with a faint scent of whiskey and stale beer and nicotine, along with a hint of gunpowder. 

 

Finding Nigel leaning against his bike, Hannibal’s Bentley pulls around the curved driveway as he impassively nods to greet his brother. Nigel doesn’t respond, his eyes closed as he inhales deeply, letting his lungs inflate as much as possible before he gathers in the amalgamation of scents; the petrichor, Hannibal’s cologne, the parched earth, herbs growing in the garden. “Where the fuck have you been now?” Slowly opening his eyes, Nigel’s lips unnoticeably curl, then droops back into a straight line as his fingers rake the matted locks - _ in dire need of shower and a goddamn beauty sleep.  _

 

“I had been wondering when you would make your unannounced appearance again. Saved him just for you.” _Lucky pig,_ _I was going to act sooner than later._ Hannibal wasn’t going to tell his twin where he had been - he would find out soon enough. His trailing thought finishes on its own as he leaves the latter part out to be percolated within his mind. With his empirical judgment, he had been contently able to live with demons within his mind without affecting too much of his underlying personality - perhaps there is uncharted territories when it came to specific acts and within the individual. _He_ _cannot control with respect to whom he falls in love_ , as he had done in Paris when they had gotten closer than ever.

 

His emotions run more rampant than usual, like a curved graph. The correlation between the duration of Nigel’s absence and his frustration matching to soar through the roof. But no, as his usual adamant stubbornness wouldn’t cooperate with accepting his spawning emotions, the idea of abandonment and betrayal corrupts the sanctuary of his mind palace. 

 

At least in the orphanage, it was easy to empathize with Nigel as the imagery unfolds as clear as a day; the less than savory environment; the relentless bullying and careless and ruthless caretakers. His muteness must have drove the flamboyant and temperable twin to flip out even more so. Craving an external sensation, the contusions and livid bruises, gashes and busted open cuts helped to perceive and manifest Nigel’s existence in the world. Yes, there was recess and playtime and opportunities to learn; he preferred to be not confined, avoid the oppressive caretakers altogether and those four walls that acted more as an incarceration, intended for a punishment than being a place of security and comfort.

 

Whether intentional or with purpose, Nigel hadn’t been exactly informative nor discreet enough to abate his growing aberration. No wonder his twin always were ravenously hungry for both his home cooked meals or him for that matter when he showed up less than put together, reminiscent of the days when he had seen him the first in few years when Nigel left him. Rubbing his eyes, Nigel noticeably tilts his head, shaking the languidness off as a dog would shake his fur. “Tonight it is, then. I’d rather make him choke on his own fucking blood, but your method might as well work the same for displaying purposes.” 

 

Now in his senior year to complete the requisite fieldwork for Bachelor of Science in criminal justice. With his keen eye, excellent observation skills and impeccable eye coordination, he was, after all, an embodiment of Lecter blood. Quick learner and adaptive to surroundings, it didn’t matter if his classmates had been at least ten years or much more younger. For both of their interests, when he finally completes a few more hours of it, then he was going to surprise Hannibal with the news. 

 

He already had told that he took a leave of absence for indefinite amount of time not too long after Hannibal left for the States - the soaring motivation he used to have gradually slipped and he couldn’t meet the demanding workload as he submitted to his own share of demons.  _ The lonely moments just got lonelier the longer he had been in love than if you were alone _ . And as years passed without knowing how to contact his older twin, the harder it was to delve into the minimum credited classes. 

 

Putting both of his legs on the lounge with his heavy boots still on, Nigel puffs a continuous trail of smoke and taps the ashes in an empty takeout container after vacuuming down the food in a heartbeat. Starting to get a grasp of cooking on his own, Nigel hadn’t given a fucking care for the flavor nor how stone cold the food is from his three-hour drive from New York. 

 

“I was going to cook for you, Nigel. Must you bring the atrocity into our house?” Letting an exasperated sigh rattle his chest, Hannibal chucks off his overcoat and hangs it neatly over the rack after brushing a bit of drizzled rainwater off the shoulders of the coat. 

 

“Save your fucking energy for tonight’s kill, then we could have late supper on the lounge.” Leaning further into the cushion, Nigel crosses his ankles at the foot of the lounge and deeply exhales, his chin tipping upward as he shuts his eyes. “I’ll even do the cooking if I feel especially uplifted. Now, just leave me alone while I take some shuteye, wake me up when it’s time for us to do the task.”

 

And with that, sleep-deprived Nigel immediately slips into an oblivion, fast asleep by seconds. He dreams of perambulating through the woods when everything spiralled out of control. Hannibal lets his mind become an unperturbed sea of the nightfall and takes out his sketchbook and impeccably sharpened scalpel, sharpening the pencil to a thorn-like point. It’s easy to hone in his focus as everything fades out in the background. 

 

He’s a teenager again, watching Nigel from afar, letting him do his own thing while he occupies himself to rendering his twin down to his essence. Before the half-smoked cigarette falls from Nigel’s fingers, Hannibal is quick to grasp it and he ponders. He hadn’t smoked one in decades. Deciding against it, he puts it out and resumes his work. 

 

~~

 

With such atrocities committed, it doesn’t take both of them to get right into work. Already having figured out the man’s trajectory for the night, a meticulous plan quickly formulates itself to make the theatrical presentation perfected. Driving along the desolate road, slippery with torrent of a rain as it turns more cats and dogs, Nigel had already gouged a hole in the tank and with their advanced eyesight, the leakage becomes more evident as Andrew Caldwell, the doctor who had been unspeakably rude enough to question his liability. 

 

“I will only be taking his heart and liver, so why don’t you sever him into half from his behind while I walk toward him to distract him? You alway prefered the mess, I could pose as if I was offering assistance.” Through pitter-patter of the rain as the wipers quietly sway back and forth like a metronome, Hannibal’s Bentley slows down right behind Andrew’s car as the man gets out to inspect the tank. Englobing his leather gloves, which he means to burn off after all the procedures, Nigel does the same as he checks the gleaming scalpel, sharpened enough to separate a thin sheet of paper with ease. 

 

The rest is history as the severed body situates on the back seat of an empty school bus, with his upper body seated next to his lower body, organs already harvested with surgical precision with the autopsy line already stitched meticulously clean. Not a drop of blood present with the scene absolutely cleaned without a speck. 

 

While Hannibal is busy himself cleaning up from the aftermath of the gruesome scene, taking all the sinister puddle of sanguine cleaned along with all their soiled clothes and burning them again, Nigel cooks sacromonte omelette with the liver. Hannibal is efficient and quick to join him by side as he prepares the heart, removing tough sinews around the aorta and other non-consumable parts. That dish ought to teach the younger twin some patience; it is not at all the hardest dish to cook and Nigel’s cooking needed a bit of a refinement, but still, his chopping skills were remarkably exceptional and if Hannibal had guided and tweaked him without letting the other find out, he’d be worthy of being an  admirable chef, too. 

 

He had thought he was the master chess player with the board full of pawns, always willing to sacrifice with his intent and his sole intent only. Their course of feast flows smoothly as the texture of his panna cotta and the days are as content and blissful like the endless compliments he had received all those years for his profound performance and exceptional harpsichord playing. At least the idea of hosting another smaller and more intimate party had occupied his muddled mind to straighten out in a crumbled mess and nights his brother by his side had him to grow tight-lipped than before as he felt like the younger twin had stoked the fire within him without ulterior motive. 

 

Unbeknownst to Nigel, who is too busy whisking up the cracked eggs and chopping the herbs (pulverizing would be more correct word), an unexplainable sensation brims over as he ponders the recent events, and the younger twin’s yet another imminent travel. Of course, the course of events which had separated both of them will still act like a venom coursing through his veins and he would occasionally dream about the events, causality and effects and all. More emotionally aroused, the physiological change within him is much more apparent and that much difficult to bring it into an abated state -  _ was he really turning into his unrefined brother, full of shortcomings and all? _ Or better worded,  _ an unveiled human. _

 

All the business aside, Nigel had been absent in prolonged amount of time, even going through not answering Hannibal’s incoming calls and texts. Then there would be abrupt travels overseas, Nigel’s only explanation being ‘business-related.’ When prodded for more thorough explication, he had said, ‘to take care of some unfinished business on his primary agenda.’ Hannibal disposes of his latest victim, burns off all the evidences and purchases more lavish tailored suits.  _ Didn’t his brother just tell him that procedure to expand the franchise had finalized months before? And if he owned half the share of the property, then why did he have to be away for so long? _ Being pushed more than he had been nineteen years ago, he had been selfish before and hadn’t even batted an eyelash when he accepted the scholarship offer to attend Johns Hopkins to pursue his medical degree. 

 

His personal wardrobe encompasses with much more bright shades, stripes and subtle plaids. Staying away from his usual windowpanes and subtle switches of dark, ominous colors, he snoops around Nigel’s separate wardrobe on the opposite side to his personal one. After few days, his brother’s prominent scent begins to disappear; on the sheets, pillow, suits, the leather jacket Nigel had purchased for him, navy blue in color. As much as he absolutely abhors the scent of stale nicotine and his rule too frequently violated by his stubborn twin, the cold hard truth is that he also is not too different from his twin. His heart going from zero to twenty in minutes. _ Love in the form of unquenchable fire and blood.  _


	3. Chapter 3

Deciding to invite one of his colleague and an acquaintance for a casual dinner, Hannibal decides to serve punch romaine along with the main course - the cocktail infamous for being the Titanic’s first class menu before the ship had pointed towards the star before the arctic dark abyss consumed the unsinkable ship. “It’s a cocktail concocted by Escoffier, served to first-class passengers on the Titanic during their last dinner.” Letting his mouth quirk up in a half smile with a tilt of his head, his hands busy themselves to shave the fine ice shavings into the crystalline cup, his impeccably waxed locks fall to caress around his angular features. 

 

“An impressive performance, I am so honored to taste such an exquisite meal as always.” His acquaintance, whom had been introduced by Mrs. Komeda, a man by the name of Dr. Robert Mathers, courteously remarks and straightens up his spine. A man in his forties, a few years older than Hannibal, he had acquainted and thought the neurologist to be a conservative, yet appreciative of his extensive knowledge and constructive criticism of Hannibal’s recently published scholarly article about the correlation between occupation success and conscientiousness. After dabbing his mouth with the napkin on his knees, Robert turns to gaze the snowdrift that had piled up since only half an hour ago.

 

“Although I have immensely enjoyed the meal, Dr. Lecter, I do have to insist that I possibly couldn’t drive in this weather condition.” Another man, Hannibal’s colleague when he practiced as an emergency room surgeon, Dr. Mackie Erhlich comments as he elegantly savors the last morsel of the succulent lamb.  

 

“I do have properly prepped guest rooms if the snowstorm persists. Please, do enjoy the remaining dishes, gentlemen.” Already having brought out three creme brulee in dainty ramekins, he brings the portable torch out to finish the display and cooking process, the scent of caramelized sugar both overwhelming and dulcet against his heightened olfactory sense. 

 

The meal had been succulent and rich without being heavy on the stomach - a rack of lamb, delicately served along with mint sauce. When he’s about to serve both doctors the dessert, the whirring engine sound reverberating from Nigel’s bike sends an aggressive vibration through his spine. The sensation can be compared to spiralling out from his most composed state again and acting as a propellant for his pent-up frustration and anger. 

 

At least Hannibal has a sense of thinning sympathy for the man before he relentlessly and without much thought to its consequences, immediately plunging an ice pick into the temple of the man. Only faint swoosh of his fluid motion hangs in the air, along with the dissipating roar of the vibrating engine, disappearing as Nigel dismounts from the bike to carry himself in his typical long, sauntering strides. The other unscathed man looks upon such decisiveness and animalistic display without any conscience behind it with sheer horror. The utensil dropping from his grasp immediately. 

 

The sight of not only one, but two Hannibals has his lips ajar with incomparable shock, locking him in a petrified paroxysm. The other identical twin (for what he looks like), has more roguish and less refined composure, with a shiny holster around his chest underneath a leather jacket and an overcoat, with a peaking pin-up girl tattoo hidden underneath the pressed collar, a faint sheen of sweat emphasizing the man’s coppery tan skin.  

 

The man doesn’t immediately drop dead as Nigel’s usual stomping breaks the dead silence, minus the man’s stuttering and the intensifying scent of iron-rich blood flowing in a continuous trail. Hannibal doesn’t stop there, as Nigel perceives more than mere anger as the older twin futilely tries to use every ounce of his willpower not to bash the man’s head in. So he futilely thinks. _It would be a most definitely an overkill_ , as Hannibal’s fingers are too quick and focused in clutching the head of a small bust on the table, used as an ostentatious decoration, as a thunderous crack of skull concaving in as Robert’s head drops flat on the empty plate. 

 

To surmounting horror of Mackie, who is speechless and not even daring to make a breathing sound to provoke Hannibal further, one infinitesimal relief comes from the fact that neither of the twins pay attention to him as if he had been invisible. He watches Hannibal and Nigel standing between the dead doctor like feral tigers standing in a confrontation. He can only hope that his fate doesn’t end up like a piece of steak, or ravaged gazelle for that matter. 

 

In the same fashion of how their parents’ kill had been a display of savagery and mercilessness, Hannibalł himself hadn’t been free of overbrimming with the one emotion that he despised himself down to the bones -  _ beastly ugliness, no aesthetic involved when exerting his power over the others. _

 

Nigel doesn’t get flabbergasted easily, nor he had seen or imagined anything out of the norm (at least to his standards and ethics) - but this is indeed something new. The warmth of the blood and intensifying scent of all is surprisingly, the most sweetest concoction he had ever tasted. The ticking time bomb, the booming shattering the air between them as electrical charges flare. It’s like Fauvist paintings he had seen when he had been accompanied with Hannibal. The unrefined and  radical use of unnatural colors that separated color from its usual representational and realistic role, giving new, emotional meaning to the colors. Although very ephemeral, it had been impactable and didn’t exit the world without a proper bang. Hannibal’s hand still tremors with the licking fury, the flamboyant colors now turning into a thick black cloud spreading over the earth. 

 

“Are you fucking nuts? What the hell is wrong with you, Hannibal? I get you need to chop the fuck off rude people’s head, but this is going beyond what I know you of doing.” Thinking something’s gotten into his brother or there might be someone mind controlling him; _was he that fucking Winter Soldier who had been controlled by baddies who only sought vengeance?_ All and all, the bloodlust and its spillage bred catastrophe. 

 

Since both of them had been the betrayer and the betrayed, so to speak, Hannibal is very vague on those details for now. As warm coat of crimson splatters across his impeccable cream and black striped suit and his hand, Nigel’s hand is quick to close around his own, still holding the ice pick and the bust of the sculpture in his tight grasp in each hand. Nigel can’t help but to let an imperceptible flinch show with the unpleasurable confrontation brimming to his subconscious. Hannibal had been the one and only individual who ever made him feel the unfamiliar sensation. 

 

Slowly removing the ice pick from Hannibal’s death grip, Nigel exhales a shaky huff, his lips parted and his brooding hazel pools mirroring the older twin’s filmy, yet intense gaze. “Fucking shit, Han, you need to pull yourself together. You'll get caught if you continued this destructive path.” His gravelly and low voice hurtles through the dead silence, only filled with quietude of exchanged breathes.   

 

“Where have you been? I couldn’t get rid of the recurring thought of you leaving as you did when we were in orphanage.” There would be no going around loopholes or being vague will aid with the situation; what’s done is done. The man is well dead and the table is a mishmash of mess with puddle of blood, reflected upon the snowdrift in a dark ruby glow. Mackie sits quietly, locked in an invisible mold as if freeing himself from it will seal his unfortunate fate. 

 

Unblinking eyes fixated on Hannibal’s slight downward tilt, he tips the other’s chin before giving him a series of smacks as a wake-up call. Now every lost piece of puzzle fits together magically, as if magnetized and each one moving with a mind of its own. “You’re going back to Bucharest, are you not?” If he hadn’t let go of the sculpture, Hannibal knows he would have done something with it - not returning what he just had done with the doctor, but he could see himself sitting on top of his younger twin. Perhaps drugging him would be the most likely result if he didn’t seek the reason behind his repeated disappearance.

 

“Paris, Hannibal. I went there to take care of something from the old school I used to go to, met some old classmates of mine.” Watching thee red tinge bloom where he had slapped Hannibal, Nigel’s thumb glides across the sharp cheekbones enough to slice paper. “I was going to surprise with a fucking _B.S_. but this will have to do. I wanted to get it as fast as I could. I had enough credits to finish it within this year. That’s why I had gone unannounced.” 

 

“I wasn’t going to fuck it up for a second time and _bullshit_ my way through.” Fumbling for a folded paper inside his breast pocket, Nigel wipes the still warm blood with the napkin on the table and unfolds the paper to show his twin all the course listings - all the transferred credits, courses he had taken at University of Baltimore. “See, all the top marks. Remember, the Lecter blood learns quick; witty and adaptive and all.” 

 

None of the strange things bothered Nigel; the fact that he wasn’t technically a criminal as none of the evidence matched him nor he had any felony  convictions or other convictions involving crimes of moral turpitude and most of the fellow classmates had been more than ten years younger than him. 

 

“See? I get my fucking degree next month and you just had to ruin the whole fucking thing for me, for both of us.” Taking the melted punch romaine in his hand, Nigel chugs half the amount as he shoves the paper to Hannibal’s chest. The other remains speechless, immensely proud of his brother and internally beating his chest for letting things go out of spiral. The heart that had pushed through his throat returns to the proper position soon after. 

 

“Now do something about that fucking dude and come upstairs. I do have another surprise for you.” Slipping off his overcoat and unfastening the holster with his recently registered revolver fixed in position, Nigel pats Hannibal’s cheek and presses an emotionally-charged kiss on the other’s lips before entwining his fingers around the grip of the gun, handing the other the firearm. 

 

“Why the fuck you had to invite two, not one, perplex me but you know what to do.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 4 - epilogue XD


	4. Epilogue

The firearm feels exceptionally weighty in Hannibal’s arms. Although he hadn’t preferred the absence of intimateness with the weapon, he will make this a seldom exception. As he relinquished himself to the loss of control and temper, much akin (and horror) to his younger twin’s modus operandi. His brain still processing Nigel’s revelation much too slowly, he lets his subliminal well erupt over with splattering embers, turning scalding confetti of celebratory occasion. Letting a genuine grin spread over his lower face. He cocks his head, scrutinizing the revamped gun for a while to his lengthening amusement. 

“You have to live long enough with all the burden and agonizing moments to truly appreciate this. The searching for ourselves is indeed stimulating and one simply cannot escape it.” 

Muttering most to himself, but letting Nigel, whose oxfords click as he saunters across with the overcoat hanging over the crook of his elbow, Nigel chucks off the leather jacket and starts up the stairs. An unreadable expression crosses his facade - a barely-there entertainment, a bit of mischievous grin of a fifteen-year-old returns as his fingers rake through the damp locks. 

Soon after Nigel makes the first flight of stairs, he hears almost inaudible, but perceivable whoosh of the pressurized air pushing through the column of the barrel. The silencer barely makes any noise to Hannibal’s gratification. The recoil barely perceptible as Mackie’s head tips back with a hole smack dab in between his eyebrows. 

Then, everything becomes whole fluid movement with not a one step wasted; cleaning the blood, moving the bodies in the basement for organ harvestation and returning the sanctuary of his kitchen back to its impeccable state as before. 

Nigel strips down to au natural, takes a longer than usual shower and lets steam wash over all the tension between him and Hannibal over the past few weeks - he wasn’t oblivious to Hannibal’s taut frustration and his mouth wanting to spill out beans and knew his poorly constructed explanation only acted as a gasoline in a wildfire. 

Reminiscing spending time in Hannibal’s dorm and in return, having his brother sneak into his flat all those years in between their studies and his own active lifestyle, he doesn’t have to ponder too deeply to pull off a silly thing he used to do when Halloween came around. The same brand of emotion bubbled over Hannibal’s visage when he used face makeup and the indentations from fake dracula fang to mimic hickies. The outcome had been predictable, yet he had forgotten to foresee how maddening his twin would get as he had tasted blood within his mouth and his poor explanation had angered the older twin further. Through his livid bruise of a black eye and swollen flesh, he had gotten the last laugh as lasciviousness had ignited his bones and all as he penetrated Hannibal for the first time that night. 

Just in time as Hannibal’s quiet footsteps close in the distance, with the glowing flame crackling to radiate warmth all around the ensuite, the corners of Nigel’s curl up in Cheshire grin. “ _ Ah, cela va bien faire. _ ” He murmurs to himself before beating and rubbing his damp locks with the towel, unwinding it around his lean waist as he situates himself on his side of the bed, with anything and everything bared open. The orange glow permeates through his sun-kissed skin and fluctuates along with the gentle curvature of his frame. 

Finding Nigel perched on bed, legs parted, his erection visible through the covered duvet, Hannibal barely raises his eyebrow and shakes his head, gathering the strewn clothes discarded like snakeskin along the master bathroom. “How many times do I have to tell you - “

“Shhh, Han, c’mere and lift the fucking duvet.” Tilting his head, Nigel whispers as his head sticks out like a watchful meerkat. Wiping his hand against the towel, Hannibal chuckles and feigns uninterest. “Have you made a mess again in the shower booth?” 

Pinching his eyebrows together, Nigel rolls his eyes and disgruntledly frowns. “You have a fucking special penchant for ruining every fucking thing I try to do. Ugh, no. Just shut your damn mouth and lift the bloody cover? I am starting to prefer you mute than being a blabbermouth and a nagging mother hen.” 

His tongue pressing against the back of his teeth, excreting the last ounce of smothered anger, Hannibal stands in askance, pivoting his hips and feet mid-air with all the articles folded carefully in his usual manner. “Well, isn’t this a silver lining within all the gloomy clouds.” 

When the hidden sight unravels, a thin tissue with poked holes, resembling a screaming mask covers Nigel’s twitching erection, the visible wet spot holding the flimsy tissue down. 

“You are so full of it. Wet much, Nigel?”

“Water, Han, don’t fucking push it. I’m not as privily horny fuck as you assume.”  

Pushing his feet upwards as heels dig into the mattress, Nigel watches Hannibal lay his folded clothes onto the armchair near the foot of the bed and as his brother closes in the distance to unfasten some buttons around the collar, his hand immediately grasps the tail of the shirt, giving him a helping hand. 

“I think I deserve a little relaxation, and see if you have been improving in your taste.”

“Then my primary agenda would be extirpating your overly dressed state before your clothes meet the same unfortunate fate of my favorite shirt.”  


End file.
